Animus Impetus
by Solita
Summary: One death, a million affected. The prequel to Escondio. Completed.
1. Introduction – Morte

  
  
  
  
  
_For Krissi._   
  
  
  
  


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_Quando corpus morietur, fac ut animae donetur, paradisi gloria._  


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Sparkles of the incoming light streamed across the arena as the crowd began to shuffle into their seats, screaming and chanting the name of their heroes. The workers backstage crossed wires and television frames, steadying themselves for another spectacular pay per view. Wrestlers prompted themselves for the grand daddy of them all, focusing their attention and doing their rituals of preperation.  
  
An unknown, insignificant man ran down the sides of the huge ramp, set up to hold a gigantic concert by a famous band. His body hunched over, the man scurried over to the announcer, whispering into her ear the shocking news he recently heard. Once he informed her, he stepped back and watched her reaction, only to make sure she understood what she had to say.  
  
Lillian Garica's eyes watered profusely, her mouth agape. Speechless to the core, she nodded, never once noticing how her hands began to shake considerably. Grasping the hold of her mic, she trudged forward, feeling the gravity of time grasping down her place in reality, slowing everything down to a languid pace.  
  
Her satin blue dress sparkled in the golden light, stepping through the ropes and walking forward until she stood silent in the middle of the ring. For a second, she contemplated how morbid and aghast it was to merely stand as a lonely soul, surrounded by the ranting, yelling chargin of humanity. Gulping down her evident sob, her eyes glazed over the crowd, watching intently as they quieted down.  
  
"L-ladies... and gent--" She cut herself short, bitting harshly on her lower lip to confine her sorrow down. Lillian knew she had to compose herself. The world had to know the news, no matter how devistating it was. Tears brimmed against her eyes, blurrying her vision. She blinked a couple times, apathetic to the way the salty water drowned her eyelashes and created streams of black tears down her cheeks.  
  
"Ladies... and gentlemen," she shakily whispered into the mic, bringing her eyes downcast. Strands of her perfectly curled hair fell over his face, as if they tried to hide her from the cruelty of the world, and of the news. Lillian sighed into the mic, breathing in her confidence, and only shread of strength to stand on. It was time.   
  
Her eyes met the crowd, and the camera focused only on her.  
  
"... an hour ago, Steve Austin died."  
  
Her world tilted and contorted, her vision misplaced and her sanity gone. Lillian didn't know what happened, or where she was anymore. A guilt, a profound, annoying depression rested upon her heart, and the gravity of time pulled her to the ground. Her eyes searched through the crowd, her lips parted slightly.   
  
"I... I... I have... am... I..." She stuttered, eyes searching and pleading for some sort of relief from the hurt, the pain and the anguish. All this dowsed her completely, from head to toe, the uncaring numbness controlling her thoughts and actions. Her hand shakily dropped the mic, and she felt herself falling.  
  
Lillian cried out, falling on the mat, in the middle of the ring, hugging herself, trying to keep the shards of her being together. She knew that many tears would shed tonight.   
  
But for that moment, she felt nothing, heard silence, didn't sense the hands of the referees, the workers in the back, and her corresponding ring announcer helping her to her feet and dragging her to a safer spot. Only one thought ran through her mind.  
  
The word was out. The effects were soon to come.  
  
  
  
  



	2. Effect 1 – The Rock

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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_I feel like I'm ready to crack from head to heel._ - Tapping The Vein, _Undone_.  


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If people were to ask me what my thoughts were on this date of infamy, I wouldn't be able to give them a direct answer. I could only say it in one word.  
  
Crack.  
  
Returning back from another movie deal, I reacquainted myself with the others. We sure had a lot of new comers in the business now, some already heading for the top like I did when I was young.   
  
Damn. That almost makes me sound like I'm old. An old man.  
  
Most of the old guys, the ones I used to hang around with, hate the living shit out of me. I can't blame them. I admit it, I'm no wrestler anymore -- I'm a damn actor and I'm proud of it.   
  
I couldn't pass up Wrestlemania though. It's the grand daddy of them all. What's a Wrestlemania without the Great One, the People's Champion? Even if the fans probably hated the guts out of me like the guys in the back, I don't care.   
  
This was Wrestlemania an event -- a moment in history -- that always spelled magic, happiness, hope, dreams to be made and legends to be created for the rest of eternity. Like me. Like Austin.  
  
Like... Austin.  
  
He was also the reason I came back. I missed him. Out of everyone in the back, out of all of those "old guys" that I supposedly talked and bonded with, he was the only one who stayed true with me.   
  
We loved each other -- not as lovers, but as brothers. I missed chatting with my brother, drinking and laughing with him, sharing secrets and swamping ideas. In Steve I confined my soul, and in myself he confined the same.  
  
As the hours passed for the countdown to Wrestlemania, I felt... something iffy coursing through my veins. Something inside me told me... that... something peculiar happened. Or was going to happen. I felt a shudder running through my veins as I said hello and had a conversation with some of the guys.  
  
My heart worried, fussed over where Austin was. Always prompt, never late -- that was Steve entirely. He never missed a Wrestlemania unless he was injured. It was a few hours before the show started, and my heart began to pound while my brain raced questions.  
  
Where was he? What was he doing? Was he going to show up? Is he going to show up? God, I didn't know. I kept on thinking about him, desperately keeping at bay the urge to call him. He was okay, I assured himself. He was going to come to the PPV, we were going to have a chat after the show, and maybe bond a bit, recollect on our lives, inform each other on what's going on...  
  
And then that announcement. The announcement that changed everything.  
  
And that definite sound.   
  
_Crack._  
  
I was in the locker room, drinking a Coors Lite beer, a trait Steve made me pick up. I didn't even pay attention to the TV in front of me, lazily hearing into the conversation a few other wrestlers around me were having -- Benoit, Jericho, Mark, Eddie, and a bunch of others.  
  
When I saw Lillian enter the ring, I thought, "Wait a second, the show isn't starting yet. Steve still has at least thirty minutes to get to the arena."  
  
It was that look that sent a chill down my spine. Her eyes voided of happiness, vibrancy, and life. They stared at the crowd, searching, dead, lifeless. A sickening bitterness filled my mouth, and I swallowed it down.   
  
I knew something went wrong. I just knew something happened. Someone died, and I didn't know who. All of this reminded me of the time Owen fell in the ring, and how we found out a couple minutes later he died. I could never stop remembering how I felt that moment.  
  
And for some odd reason, I had that same tormenting feeling again.  
  
She kept on stuttering, desperately trying to control herself. I felt so horrible and sad for her. The poor girl tried to compose herself to say the news. I saw her calm down, and focused, she said the words that shattered my mind.  
  
My best friend died one hour ago.  
  
And one hour ago, I denied the urge to call him.  
  
**Crack.**  
  
At first, I screamed in denial, shouting at the TV, yelling at them, telling them to rectify their mistake and say another name. It wasn't Steve. It just couldn't be Steve. He was supposed to come to the PPV, and have a drink and a laugh with me...   
  
It's when Lillian fell to the floor, screaming out a sob, falling into a heap of misery in the middle of the ring on national television that shut me up automatically. My eyes glazed over, and I couldn't feel anything. I was numb. I was dead.  
  
Within that one moment, all these memories rushed through my mind, clashing with my personal self-inflicted insults and depressive beatings. I don't remember walking away from the others, merely ending up in the middle of the parking lot.   
  
And I lost it. I lost myself, my will, my soul... whoever I was, some actor, a wrestler, a human being -- that was gone. Slamming myself against the cold wall of the lot, I found no comfort. I found no one to talk to, to scream my problems to, to have a voice softly tell me to wake the fuck up -- that was all gone.  
  
It was all gone.   
  
And I couldn't do anything about it.  
  
_**CRACK.**_  
  
My body slid against the wall, and I cried out. I had no words to scream. Nothing could give what I was feeling justice. I pulled my legs to my chest, finding no warm in myself to keep me company. Sobs racked against my chest, but I refused to let them go.   
  
Covering my face with my hands, I sucked it all in. All of it. It was almost impossible to do so. I wanted all of this pain out of my -- wanting to scream it out to the world so they too could empathize with my condition. Tears fell from my eyes, pouring onto my hands, my face, my body, the ground -- everywhere, staining everything.  
  
There was no Steve Austin to tell me everything was going to be okay, to ask me if I wanted to go to the bar for a chat, to show me all these new moves and ideas he had for their match or for their own respective match. He was gone.   
  
And he took my soul with him.  
  
I'm still in that same position. I'm still here, against the unforgivening, icy wall in the middle of forty, fifty degree temperature night of a parking lot. I'm dressed with my Armani outfit, brand new and tailored, but stained with dirt and my tears. I could give a damn. Austin always hated suits.  
  
Why must I feel this way? Just make this go away... I just want one more day with Austin. One more day where I can tell him that he's appreciated, and that if he wasn't for Austin I don't know where I'd be right now. He really was my friend, my brother. I trusted him. I loved him.  
  
And I miss him. I miss him so much, I feel all the shards of my heart and mind that Steve pieced together cracking apart and ready to shatter. The adhesive wore down, and prepared to shatter. I cried. Steve wouldn't be here to help me put me back together. Like he did last time. And the times before that. Countless times...   
  
He was such a good friend.  
  
That's why I know what I can -- must say to someone who will ask me in the future, "What did you think when Steve Austin died?"  
  
And I'll smile sadly, and my eyes will glaze over, and I'll say, "Crack. Just... a CRACK."  
  
That's all I'm hearing right now. Small cracks echoing through my mind, like the way a fixed shattered glass representing the hope and love of humanity begins to crumble down but there wasn't enough adhesive left to put it back together completely. It'll only be put together half-way or less.  
  
It won't be complete anymore.  
  
I'm sitting here, and all I can do is sob, and listen.  
  
... I miss you Steve. I'll always miss you. God... Steve...  
  
_Crack. Craaack. Crack **crack**. Crrraaaaccckkk. CRACK. **CRRAAACK.**_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Effect 2 – Triple H

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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_Has he lost his mind? Can he see or is he blind?_ - Black Sabbath, _Iron Man_.  


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You son of a bitch.  
  
I hate you. I damn you to the seventh layer of hell. I condemn your fucking soul. I don't want to see you in Heaven, I want to see you rot in Hell.  
  
Die you motherfucking asshole! Die you bastard of a pig!   
  
_DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!!!_  
  
... but you're already dead, aren't you?   
  
Fulfilled my life's work, my greatest desire, the one thing I lived to see before I died -- to see you rotting, decaying, lifeless, morbid -- DEAD. To see YOU dead before ME.  
  
Fucking idiot! I hate you! I've _always_ hated you!  
  
You died on purpose. I know it. My instincts don't lie to me. I'm the fucking Game. You can't get out of the Game unless I say so.  
  
I... you... WE worked great together. We BLED together. We FOUGHT and KILLED and DESTROYED each other in feral delight, smirking devilishly as we went to the limits that our bodies and our realities could contain and just... went for the THROAT.  
  
You cunt. You bitch. You WHORE. Bitch cunt pussy ass motherFUCKER.   
  
Coped out. You fucking coped out of the Game, and you bent down and succumbed.  
  
You succumbed to Death.  
  
I. Hate. You.  
  
I would have loved to see you die! I loved it when I made you cry and made you die internally when I fucked you over with my mind games. I could always win. ... and you could always win.  
  
You were so devious, so diabolically devious. You knew me as well as I knew you. We could analyze each others thoughts, predict each other's moves, kill each other until we thought we would pass out from all the loss of blood.  
  
I hate you, Austin. I've hated you since I first met you and now I hate you even more. You didn't have to die, you asshole. You could have beat death. Death couldn't hold you back. It wouldn't hold me back, dammit! So why did you succumb?  
  
Why did YOU die?  
  
Why YOU of all people?  
  
... I hope I'm not feeling guilt.   
  
The Game cannot feel guilt. I do not need a burden on my shoulders for the rest of my life, especially if it deals with you. You are nothing to me. You ARE nothing. You're just a dead man that will haunt the lives of everyone that you touched.  
  
You won't haunt me. See, your death proved my superiority. I'm stronger than you. I'm more powerful than you. I am alive, and you are dead. You can't beat me! I won in the end, Austin! After all this time, you die, and I win. I won, Austin! I fucking _won_!!  
  
See? You can't beat me. You could never ever beat me. Remember all those confrentations we had? I always won. You might have won at times, but I always won. I AM THE GAME. YOU COULD NEVER BEAT ME. And now? Now you're dead.  
  
You're a loser, and I'm the winner.  
  
But this feels odd, somehow.  
  
This... this just doesn't feel right. I don't know why. I feel incomplete... and cheated. Oh so cheated.   
  
I blame you, Austin. I blame YOU for taking away... whatever I had. This power, this control, this domination. I blame _you_.  
  
Why did you go off and die? I don't even know how you died, and somehow I just know you could have prevented this. We went through so many matches, Austin. I just know you could have done something -- anything physically or humanly possible to prevent your death.  
  
But you failed.  
  
That... that should make me the victor, shouldn't it?  
  
_Shouldn't it?_  
  
But here I am, sitting on the couch of my locker room, surrounded by Randy, Ric, and Batista, and they're telling me to settle down and not to loose my sanity all because of you.  
  
My sanity?  
  
Heh.   
  
I don't think I ever had a piece of sanity. You knew that too well, didn't you Austin? You knew me, understood me, able to comprehend how and why I act the way I do.  
  
I am an assassin. You knew that. You were a bionic redneck. I knew that. That's why for that short time, when we worked together, we were unstoppable, invincible. We knew each other's moves, how we thoughts... we were in sync with one another.  
  
I forget why we broke up, but during that one time we were together as a team... I guess I felt whole. I had someone to confine all my deepest, darkest ploys and ideas and... and just everything. Everything that any other comrade I had would have been disgusted to hear.  
  
But you? You smiled at me understandingly, and you nodded your head approvingly, and gave me even worse ideas, ideas that I would have never thought up.   
  
You were always able to shock me, I'll give you that.   
  
I'm not a good person. You cited that out. Hell... when I found out you died, I lost it.  
  
I really did.  
  
I ran out of the room, into the arena, cursing and punching anything and everyone. Floors, chairs, tables, people -- a lot of people.   
  
Their blood stains my hands right now, Austin.  
  
That's all I'm hearing right now. Small cracks echoing through my mind, like the way a fixed shattered glass representing the hope and love of humanity begins to crumble down but there wasn't enough adhesive left to put it back together completely. It'll only be put together half-way or less.  
  
It's almost like a sacrifice to the gods, asking them -- pleading for them to give you back, send me back your soul so I can save you. I owe you nothing, Austin. You owe me nothing. I wouldn't save you for a debt.   
  
I'd save you for the Game.  
  
How can the Game live when he doesn't have his prize player anymore?  
  
I have no purpose, Steve. ... God, it's so hard using your first name and I don't know why. All of this is killing me. And... and it's... it's just killing me. Or I think it has, I really don't know. It's so confusing.  
  
Even through our hatred and rivalry and seething animosity, we had a common bond. We knew each other... and we respected one another.   
  
Maybe once in a while I looked up to you. You were more experienced, somehow. Always able to keep a watchful eye on me, even when we wanted to kill each other and damn one another to Hell and praise the day one of us died. You were just a good... honest person.  
  
Honest.  
  
I feel so cheated. I feel cheated that I didn't get to beat you truthfully, letting Death take the reigns for me and killing you.  
  
God, that sounds so wrong, huh? All I wanted was to destroy you, watching you die beneath my arms and scream my name as I take away your life. That's what I wanted.  
  
And I'm cheated out of it.  
  
So I'm sitting here, and the guys are just looking at me. These people... remember De-Generation X, Steve? This group, Evolution, it's gonna fall too, huh? And I'm going to be standing alone again. I think. Hopefully.  
  
But I'm experienced, thanks to you. I feel... wiser. Stronger. Able to make it, to persevere over all those odds like you did. Our rivalry made me stronger. Should I thank you for that? You knew me, and you know I won't thank you for anything.   
  
I'll at least credit you, but not thank you. I'm not that kind of guy. But you knew that, didn't you Steve?  
  
And Flair, Batista, Orton... they're asking me why I snapped like that, nearly punching out everyone in the back, nearly beating all of them into a bloody pulp, nearly destroying everyone in a feral outburst of rage, torture, and --  
  
I cut them off with my smile.  
  
And it's just a smile.  
  
I'm staring at my hands, Steve, and I'm merely smiling. "I can't get his blood off of me."  
  
They just stare at me, wondering what I meant by that cryptic message.  
  
You're smart Steve. You were always smart. A cunning, shrewd bastard from hell, just like me. You get the picture, don't you? You understand it, huh? I won't ever get your blood off of me... ever. No matter what.  
  
Other blood will stain my hands, but it won't ever cover me like your blood has. It courses through my veins, keeping me strong, wise... alive. Fucking _alive_, Steve.  
  
Death didn't cheated me from killing you, Steve. I know who the real cheater is, because that bastard took you away from me. Took you out of the Game.  
  
I won't _ever_ forgive him, nor forget. You know me, Steve.  
  
The hate between us is eternal, and our animosity, our game between us is something to look forward to when I get to Heaven or Hell. I'll meet you somewhere.  
  
But now, I don't hate you Steve. For the rest of my life, I will never hate you again Steve. I don't have a reason to.  
  
I now have a new target.  
  
I'll hate you later, Steve.  
  
But now...  
  
I hate you, God.  
  
... _**I FUCKING HATE YOU.**_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Effect 3 – Shawn Michaels

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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_God, sometimes you don't pull through._ - Tori Amos, _God_.  


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I remembered one time that there was a song on the radio sung by a gorgeous female voice, and it was talking about you, Lord. She was singing the truth.  
  
"God, sometimes you just don't pull through."  
  
I'm following your word, consoling others, helping them in their time of need. God, I didn't know Austin had this kind of affect on other people. I didn't even know that people actually looked him to him, found advice other than business life from him...  
  
There was so much more to Steve Austin than what meets the eye. Or... what met the eye.   
  
He's dead now.   
  
I haven't reacted yet.  
  
I'm too worried about the others, wondering how they feel, how their reactions are either intense or subtle, helping out those who cannot control their emotions. I've seen Dwayne scream and storm out of here. I haven't found him. I don't think he wants to be found.  
  
And Hunter... he lost it. I shouldn't converse with a man with such hatred, morbidity, and vileness in him. So I won't.   
  
Jericho is talking with Benoit, so I won't interfere. I am consoling the younger guys, the ones who looked up to Steve. That's what I'm doing, Lord. You told me -- told humanity to help others in their time of need. So that's what I'm doing.  
  
I'm helping them, conversing with them... and they get over it. It doesn't hurt them. It doesn't hurt them at all, Lord. It affects them, because they knew this man. They knew him, talked with him, bonded with him... and now that he's gone, they feel lost.  
  
As long as I have you, Lord, I'm never lost. I guess they're going to rely on me, now, because I have a sense of direction. I know where I'm going and what I'm doing. I'm not going to let these demons control me again. I'm pure, I'm cleansed... I'm complete.  
  
I feel nothing now that Austin's gone. I have no reaction. I stay firm, and true in front of the others, a pillar of strength and a person to rely on. They can all trust me now. They can all rely on me now. Steve's gone, so I'm here.   
  
I feel like a Messiah, Lord. You can be proud of me. I'm giving salvation to these young, naive people. I'm helping them learn to move on, gain experience from this event, and to never reflect on it again. To move on... to trudge forward in life, and never look back.   
  
They're okay, Lord. They're all fine now. They're controlling their emotions, for now, understanding that it was Wrestlemania, and it was time to focus on the task at hand. And so I go back to my locker room, and I close the door, and I automatically kneel, and I pray to you.  
  
And the lyric hits my head.  
  
"God, sometimes you don't pull through."  
  
That makes you human, then. It's said that humanity was made in your image, Lord. So you can make mistakes, because that's who you are. You're a mortal man who happens to have the greatest powers in the universe -- a man who can take and give, create and destroy, life and die.  
  
But Steve Austin is _dead_, Lord.  
  
What did he ever do? Sure, he drank few too many beers that might not suit your fancy, and cursed up a storm, and flipped the bird at authority, and did such reckless behavior like bringing in a beer truck or a monster truck into the arena.   
  
He was a good man, Lord. He was a very good man, Lord. He loved his children so dearly, I can still remember how he literally teared up and became so real and solemn when he started to talk about how he missed them. He loved his family so much that one time he told me his friends in college wouldn't have been surprised if he left back for Edna, his home.  
  
Steve... he loved joking around with us in the back, still acting the same Steve Austin when he hit it big. He still treated us the same, as equals. He didn't let greed and fame hit his head. He wanted to get the company over, as well as himself, and then get others to where he is. He wasn't selfish, Lord, he wanted to persevere. And he did.  
  
He was a giving man, Lord. He loved helping others. Look at those men in the back -- crying for him. Rocky's bawling somewhere, Hunter went berserk, and I'm...   
  
I'm... just...  
  
I'm just kneeling here, praying to you, Lord.  
  
_Praying._  
  
That's all I'm doing as a reaction to the death of Steve Austin.  
  
It's no surprise, though. Me and Steve never got along. We didn't like each other. But... but we had a bond, I think. A faint one. We loved this business, we loved helping others, and we loved our families.  
  
I didn't know if he was a religious man. He was such a private individual, and I respected him for it.  
  
It's no wonder he jumped on me when he said I was flaunting out my religion. He kept his religious preferences to himself. He didn't show them off like I did... like I AM.  
  
Why did you take HIM, Lord? Why not an evil man who raped women or a man who took away innocent souls or a man who commited adultery and was never condemned for it? Where's your justice, God?  
  
Dear Lord, dear God... why did you forsake Steve?  
  
Why did you take him away from the world?  
  
Why, God, why?  
  
Oh Lord, I feel tears staining my eyes. My chest sobs softly, and my clasp hands begin to fall over my mouth in order to stop myself.  
  
This isn't right. Nothing is right anymore. There's no justice anymore. I don't know what you think is right anymore... I've lost my direction, Lord. And y'know what's sad?  
  
The only possibly for me to getting back on track, the only man who would be able to help me, is gone. You took him away from the world, Lord. You took him away from me. From everyone. From his family, friends...  
  
I shouldn't be crying for a man that I had no common bond with. I shouldn't... I shouldn't... this isn't right. Or real. I just shouldn't be crying period. I shouldn't...  
  
But I am. And I can't stop.  
  
That female singer was right, Lord. She was absolutely right. God, sometimes you just don't pull through.  
  
And that's why it's times like these that makes me realize...  
  
... sometimes, just sometimes... I-- hate you.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Effect 4 – Chris Benoit

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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_Your star will shine again one day._ - Stone Roses, _Your Star Will Shine_.  


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Stone Cold Steve Austin's dead.  
  
I feel no remorse.  
  
There's no pity, or anger, or sorrow running through my body or my mind.   
  
I'm a statue as the Rock throws himself against the TV in anger, screaming and yelling in denial and runs out of the room, understanding the unbearable truth that his best friend is gone.  
  
I'm a statue as Hunter loses it, screaming and punching everyone and anything blindly, unable to believe that his eternal enemy was gone, ducking just in time to miss the contact of his fist against my jaw.  
  
I'm a statue as Shawn walks over to me, as if he's trying to attempt to council me; however, he slowly back away when he sees the icy, apathetic glare in my eyes.  
  
I'm a statue as Jericho tries to strike a conversation with me, maybe finding a bond with me within the chaos of the man's death but I pay no attention and brush against him to the door as he pours out to me his soul.  
  
I'm a statue.  
  
I don't care about others.  
  
And I especially don't care about Stone Cold Steve Austin.  
  
We never had a connection, Steve and I. We met around in Japan, and sure I respected him. He was an easily respectable guy. He was honest, blunt, frank, truthful, honorable, caring, and just goddamn funny. It was a blast with him in Japan.  
  
But this is Wrestlemania. I don't have time to worry about things from the past. I can't loose my focus because of the death of some stupid Texas SOB that rose hell, drank beer, and stood up for the people in humanity who were sick and tired of authority.   
  
Steve Austin was a good man. He had his faults, but that made him human. He always admitted his faults, and took the blame for things when he was the one to be blamed. That was the one thing that made me admire Steve. He had the guts to admit when he was wrong, and would try to make up for it.  
  
He'll be missed. Hell, _I'll_ miss him.  
  
But now wasn't the time to think about those petty, insignificant thoughts.  
  
So I start my ritual, focusing my attention, doing exercises, blocking out the sounds of anguish and despair and fury as I run down the hallways in a sprint. I ignore the cries of shock and deep conversation as I stretch my muscles and warm them up. I'm apathetic to their cries, worries, concerns, tears...  
  
I'm a statue.  
  
I find myself outside, and I'm breathing heavily, my warm up ritual over. I'm focused, I'm ready, I'm a statue and I can't crumble. I'm ready to move on, to win my match, to become a legend like many others before me.  
  
Like Austin.  
  
For some odd reason, I stare up to the sky, and I notice how clearly black it was of nightfall. Only the stars illuminated the area, sparkling on the puddles of previous rainfall.   
  
For some odd reason, I think about Austin, and the time we spent in Japan. I remember that one time we were sharing a room, and were so bored we were looking outside of the window, gazing at the Japan skyline.  
  
For some odd reason, I remember how Austin looked at a certain bright star and said something that stayed with me since that day.  
  
"Y'know," he said in a whisper, his eyes sparkling like private twin blue stars, filled with beauty, curiosity, and wisdom, "if you choose just one star, from out of the bunch of 'em, it'll stay with you for the rest of you're life."  
  
"Really?" I remember asking him.  
  
He knowingly nodded his head and pointed to that star again. "See that?" I had nodded my head, notcing the very bright star not far from the moon. "That's the North Star, but back then when I was a kid, I didn't know it was the North Star. I called it my star, because wherever I was, it always watched over me." He had paused, only to glare at me. "You tell anyone about this sentimental moment and I'll shoot you.  
  
I remember laughing at his antics. "Don't worry Steve," I had reassured. "I won't."  
  
There's no smile on my lips now. There's no mirth or happiness within my icy blue eyes. I'm lifeless, I'm dead, and I'm cold. I'm determined, focused and concentrated. Nothing will distract me. Nothing will stop me.   
  
My eyes fall upon the North Star, Steve's own star, and not far is my own star. I had picked a star that wouldn't be far from Steve's, so I could always remember where it was.  
  
All of a sudden, that star -- the North Star -- pulsed once... twice... and merely vanished.  
  
My star grew in size, taking the sky and engulfing it in it's presence. And that's when I knew the truth.  
  
... Austin's star wasn't the North Star. _Mine_ was.  
  
I'm staring up at the sky, knowing that the entire Earth rotated at the axis of the North Star. My star. ... but something inside tells me I just can't claim that star as my own. The North Star was always Steve's, never mine.  
  
It's like... it's like saying that Steve's death was beneficial to me. Like now that he's dead, I can be the center of attention, have all the fame and fortune to myself.   
  
It's all mine. All mine. It all belongs to me now.  
  
Then why does it feel so wrong?  
  
Why does it feel _wrong_?  
  
I'm a statue. I'm standing here, looking at the sky.  
  
That star isn't mine. It never belonged to me, it always belonged to Steve. It's Steve's. He's immortal, the guiding light for everyone. The North Star is Steve's star.   
  
Fuck, I'll choose another one some other time.  
  
I'm standing here. And I'm watching the sky and I could swear I feel the world rotate around me and only _me_. And somehow my gut is telling me that I'm not hallucinating.  
  
Did you give me this priviledge, Steve?   
  
Why?  
  
I'm a statue. I feel nothing. I am made of stone. No one can break through me. I'm immortal in my own right.  
  
You didn't have to do that, Steve. Dear God, you didn't have to.  
  
I'm a statue. Statue's don't have feelings. Their emotions are chiseled into their faces, and I didn't happen to be known as Miss Merry Sunshine.   
  
But I'm crying.  
  
Tears.   
  
_Tears_, Steve.  
  
Tears are streaming down my face, silently, flowing profusely. I can't stop them. I don't think I can.  
  
I'm staring up at the sky.  
  
I'm a statue. Statue's have _no_ feelings.  
  
But you, Steve Austin, gave me the one thing I don't think I can never repay you for. Not the star, not the world, not the fame, not the fortune...  
  
My humanity.  
  
I'm a statue, Steve.  
  
But you gave me a piece of humanity.  
  
... thank you.  
  
I stand there, gazing softly, crying with endless tears, shedding them only for you, my only token and gratification for the one thing you gave me.  
  
And then it happens.  
  
I smile.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Effect 5 – Chris Jericho

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

_I'd rather laugh with the sinners and cry with the saints._ - Billy Joel, _Only The Good Die Young_.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
I'm possibly a more sadistic person than Hunter.  
  
I have to be.  
  
When I heard the news that Steve Austin died, I didn't feel pity, or sorrow. I didn't react like Rocky did, nearly having a damn heart-attack at the statement and then bawling like a baby. I sure as hell didn't react like Hunter, acting like a fucking maniac. I didn't act like Shawn, trying to council the entire world.  
  
Instead, the King of the World, the Ayatolla of Rock and Rolla, decided to do the one thing that would make Hunter shake his head in disgust.  
  
I smiled, and I laughed.  
  
Heaven knows why I did that, cause not even I know.  
  
Maybe it's because of the animosity we had with one another. We didn't like each other, and it's completely evident. Hell, a lot of men hated Steve with a passion. They wanted to rip his guts out, make him cry, make him bleed - maybe find a thrill out of it. Hunter was one of those men.  
  
And me? Maybe I am too. Because I laughed. Hard. Steve Austin's dead. That was a riot. A huge, fucking riot.  
  
I mean, he's Stone Cold Steve Austin. He's the biggest name in sport's entertainment. And he dies? That's like saying God was defeated by the Devil, or saying that the Nazi's actually won World War II. It's fucking blasphemy. Motherfucking idiocy.  
  
And, hell, it just can't be true either.  
  
So who do I talk to in order to pour out what I'm feeling and thinking? The most unexpected person, Chris Benoit. I knew he wasn't listening. He was off in his own little world, the fucking statue. But I told him everything.  
  
I was laughing and joking with a brick wall, with a phantom, a statue, nothing. I told him that this was the most hilarious Wrestlemania so far. I told him that all they needed to hear was that Austin came back from the grave and called himself the next Messiah. Then I knew the world was coming to an end.  
  
He wasn't paying attention at all. I had a feeling when I said Austin would come back to the grave to fuck his sweet ass into the ground. He just nodded his head, brushed past me, and left the room.  
  
I swear it -- if no one laughed would've at _that_, then they just weren't human at all.  
  
I passed everyone as I went back to my locker room, the one I shared with Christian. Luckily he wasn't in, so I was all by myself. I began laughing hysterically, clutching onto my stomach and unable to breathe for the longest time.  
  
The people's reactions, the way they all looked, how absentminded and foolish they all portrayed themselves as, out of character of how they usually conduct themselves...  
  
_THIS WAS TOO MUCH! ALL TOO MUCH!_  
  
Austin dies and the whole world goes to fucking hell.  
  
This. Was. Too. Much.  
  
I mean, he's just Stone Cold Steve Austin. He didn't do anything for anybody. He drank beer, he kicked ass, he acted caring and sweet and trustworthy and nice -- big butt _fungly_ deal! The guy wasn't all perfect, he was as imperfect as anyone in the world.  
  
... but he did admit his faults. Like a man. And he meant it when he said he wasn't going to commit them again.  
  
He never did commit those same crimes twice.  
  
Yeah, he was admirable. Whoopie, junior, does it look like I care? No, of course not, I'm fucking laughing my ASS OFF HERE! I could care less about Stone Cold Steve Austin.  
  
I'm laughing cause I mean it. I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad I won't have to hear his stupid jokes or his stupid conversations or how he kept on asking him how I was doing and offering any advice that I needed, in and outside of the ring.  
  
I don't care that I actually took some of his advice and implanted some of it as apart of my personal philosophy. I don't care that I actually bonded with him during the time that he left the company. I don't care that I feel this stinging in my eyes and a blurry softness over my vision.  
  
**I. Don't. Care.**  
  
So I'm sitting here, ready for Wrestlemania to start, and I'm laughing my damn ass off. My chest is shaking, the memories are haunting, and all I can think about is how hilarious this all is.  
  
Tears begin to fall, and I laugh harder than before. It slowly fades into a mix of happiness and sorrow, comedy and despair... all rolled into one. A laugh for the assclowns, and a laugh for the Jerichoholics.  
  
A laugh for everyone. A laugh for _you_, Austin.  
  
It's really funny, y'know. It really, really is.  
  
I say I don't care for you, and yet I do. I say that this is hilarious, and yet I'm crying. I say that I'm glad you're dead, and yet I feel this ping inside me telling me that I already miss you and our conversations that we had together.  
  
I'm sitting here, shaking, laughing, crying.  
  
I never liked irony, Steve.   
  
I know you didn't either.  
  
And y'know the best part, Steve? The best part out of all of his hilarious, ludicious facade?  
  
I know that later on, sometime down the road, I'm going to wonder where you are, asking myself if I should call you or not to strike up a conversation, just to hear one of your corny jokes to keep me entertained or have a discussion on music, food, sports, or whatever.  
  
I then it'll hit me like a ton of bricks that you're dead. And I can never have that piece of life again, because it's gone forever, until I see you again on the other side.  
  
You weren't always good at jokes, Steve.  
  
But this is the best punchline you could ever make.  
  
And so I'm gonna sit here, and keep laughing at that joke, Steve, and I'm probably gonna be laughing for the rest of my life. I think that's the only way I'm going to be able to repay you for all that you've done for more.  
  
Bravo, junior. Bravo.  
  
You were able to make the great King of Bling Bling weep for you, in both laughter and in sorrow. Only you could do that, Steve.   
  
I don't know whether to thank you or kill you. But then again, you've already chosen the latter, if not unwillingly.  
  
I could care less about you dying, Steve. I really don't care.  
  
Yeah, I know, I'm lying again. Fuck off, I'm good at it. You told me to be honest every once in a while. So here's to you, Steve. Here's the only truthful thing I'm going to say to you.  
  
I don't care about you dying, Steve. But I'll always treasure the moments between us when you were alive.  
  
I'll see you later, Steve.  
  
For now, I'm just gonna sit here, and laugh.  
  
I ain't gonna cry. That's for assclowns.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Effect 6 – The Undertaker

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

_I can't explain. You won't understand. This is not how I am._ - Pink Flyod, _Comfortably Numb_.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
I don't think Steve ever knew what affect he had on these kids.  
  
I was sitting silent in the back, my brother standing in front of me the entire time. We don't see eye-to-eye, and even then we didn't.  
  
And then I hear all that shit on the TV about Austin dying and watching all those different reactions.  
  
Rocky screamed furiously, Hunter yelled in insanity, Shawn's mouth dropped (though I think he didn't know that at the time), Benoit stayed still as a statue though his eyes widened considerably, and Jericho just started laughing.  
  
It really does pay being the odd man out, with all this experience I have. I'm able to catch these little things people try to hide. Each one of them tried to hide their reaction. It was evident, though, completely evident.  
  
They were all affected. Each one of them had a ping of sorrow in their eyes the minute they heard the news. It unnerved me for a while, seeing all these pairs of eyes ready to cry for Steve. Then they went back into character, portraying whoever they are.  
  
See, Steve? I hope you're watching this. Even in death, it doesn't hurt to learn a few things.  
  
I hope that you've understand all the affects you've done on these poor kids. Cause to be honest, you've affected me too.  
  
Does that mean I'm gonna sit back and cry like they are?  
  
Hell no.  
  
I'm the one whose going to have to act strong. It's going to be a fucking burden, since between the two of us we helped out these young kids with advice and shit, but I don't care. Someone has to truly stay strong in this time of need.  
  
And somehow this reminds me of the time Brian died.  
  
I remember how you were just pale, frozen, and just standing there in the locker room with me. We were talking beforehand and we get that news. Just before the pay-per-view, Badd Blood, the one where it was the first Hell in the Cell match and I was set to fight Shawn...   
  
And all of a sudden... Brian's dead. It hurt me a little, but you? You were frozen in the damn spot. You looked like you just died, and there was so much guilt in there, in those blue eyes... I had to rip my gaze away. I couldn't met your eyes the entire night there after.  
  
Not like the man I was talking to when Owen died. How ironic is that? We were talking when Brian died, and the same when Owen died. You were truly numb, but you were... strong. Powerful. Refused to let those emotions control you. You stayed the same. Once in a while you helped out one of the younger guys.  
  
You lost yourself when Brian died, but you stayed in control when Owen did. When Brian died, you possibly lost a piece of your soul... but when Owen died, you just felt numb. Maybe the reason was because Owen and you never got along after you nearly broke your neck. Did you find a sadistic happiness at his death?  
  
... no. I already know the answer.  
  
You aren't that type of person, Steve. Well, you weren't. I don't care for technicality.   
  
I wished that you would have forgiven him completely before Owen died. But now that you're gone, maybe when you two meet in Heaven, you can finally have that conversation I wish you did when the both of you were alive. I guess that "talk" is inevitable now.  
  
Like the others, I'm sure as hell gonna miss you. You were a great friend. Hell, this is sad -- I even remember you back in the day when you had blonde hair, naive as hell, and was so green it hurt. You really grew, Steve, in and out of the ring. You got wiser.  
  
And now you're gone. I'm not gonna cry. I can't cry. Maybe sometime down the road, when I'm thinking too much, I'll sob a bit, and let some tears fall, but I'm not gonna cry. I'll let my eyes water, and I'll let my voice crack a bit or two, but I won't fully let my angst control me.  
  
I really don't have anything else to say, Steve. You're dead, and the other's will get over it. Some will always be haunted by it. And I'll admit it, I know I'm apart of that few. You're gonna haunt me, Steve. I accept that fact.   
  
But I'm not gonna cry. I'm gonna stay in the back, hidden in the shadows with Kane here, and we're gonna watch over everyone.   
  
I look at my brother, and I can just feel my jaw dropping quickly. Kane's eyes are brimmed with tears. He's holding his bottom lip down, and I can see his chest racking with sobs.  
  
I'm... I'm just kind of numb. Unable to move. I'm staring in front of me, locked at the shaken, fragile form of my brother. And he's crying. He's crying for _you_.  
  
What did you do, Steve? Kane never cried for me... not ever since the fire. He doesn't care for me. Never will.   
  
But there he is, hidden in the shadows like I, and there's streams of tears falling down his face. He can't hide the sobs from me, attentively noticing how those clear trails fell down onto his chest and the ground.  
  
What did you _do_? How did you do it? ... why?  
  
You made the monster shed tears.  
  
I reach forward to touch Kane's shoulder and squeeze it reassuringly. Kane merely gazes at me with his tear-stained mismatched eyes. And he just whispers to me a single sentence, stabbing me with the innocent truth behind it.  
  
"I didn't even know him."  
  
A smile rested upon my lips. "Neither did I."  
  
Kane just gives me this look, knowing full well that I was lying straight through my fucking teeth, but he succumbs and releases his sorrow in a flow of silent tears. He sniffs and chokes on his words, mumbling to himself things I can't even hear... or maybe I just don't want to hear.  
  
I move over from my side of the wall and I just stand next to my brother, holding onto his shoulder and nothing more. It's the only way I can help him. The only way I can be a good brother, something I haven't been.  
  
And I just feel it.  
  
The soft touch of a tear falling down a face.  
  
_My_ face.  
  
I started to shed a tear for you too. I can feel it slowly trickling down my face, and I watch Kane merely staring at it in shock. And then he moves forward to remove it from my face, gazing at the tear lingering on his thumb.  
  
He just looks at me. "It's okay to cry."  
  
And I just stare at him. I turn my head away from Kane, and I just start staring out.   
  
I'm numb. I have nothing to say.  
  
And I'm slowly crumbling within.  
  
I guess that was the biggest difference between you and me, Steve. You stayed strong until your body gave out on you, or until Fate had it in for you. And just by your death, I can feel my strength giving away and I don't know the reason why.  
  
Kane and I are going to stay in the shadows of the locker room, until Wrestlemania is supposed to start. It fits our characters, our souls... our bond as brothers.  
  
So I'm gonna stand here, and stay numb. Cause I won't cry, Steve. I won't cry.  
  
Cause if I cry, then I know this is real.  
  
And I don't feel like waking up yet.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Effect 7 – Kane

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

_Be yourself, by yourself, stay away from me._ - Pantera, _Walk_.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
We never got along. We didn't like each other. We didn't care for one another. We had nothing in common.  
  
So why am I crying for him?  
  
Maybe it's because of the surroundings I'm in right now. I can just hear their cries, their sorrows, and my soul feeds off of it, exhilerated by it. I'm a glutton for sorrow. A big glutton.  
  
Does that make me empathetic? Because I can cry for a man that I had no feelings for at all? A man that I didn't consider anything to me?  
  
If Hurricane died, I might feel something. Rob, sure. Taker? ... I guess. I don't know. Any one of their deaths would haunt me for the rest of my living days.  
  
But why him?  
  
Why Steve?  
  
And the funny thing is that he didn't treat us as his prey to his actions. He toyed with us, and let us go. He had a giving heart. Something I don't have. I've been tormented and confused, a sorrowful individual trying to find solace in humanity, independence, love. And I get fucked over easily because of it.  
  
That's why I'm a monster. I don't want to let anyone get close to him anymore. I want to be a ruthless, cunning and animalistic monster, one that no one will ever want to be near to anymore. And I'll be content with it on the outside, but on the inside I'll be dying, wishing for someone to share a happy, loving moment with.  
  
I don't want to feel anymore pain inflicted from others. Let me cut and gash in my own wounds, inflict agony onto myself purposely. Not from others. No more. It hurts. The pain hurst more by the jagged, unskilled hand of others than the wise, skilled blade of my own judgement.  
  
I'm still wondering why I'm crying for Steve Austin.  
  
Deep down inside, am I an empathetic person? Did I really want to have a bond with Steve, but now has lost the chance to do so? Did I really want to befriend the Texas Rattlesnake? Did I just want to talk with him and hear his jokes?  
  
I remember how Steve used to be so ashamed, so filled with disgust around me. For the longest time I thought those looks and mannerisms directed to me and to me only. The glares, the whispers-- solely for me.  
  
Now I can see the truth, and it's so fucking clear. He blames himself, blames himself for something that I can't see. Blames himself for an event that I don't know what occured.  
  
Something tells me inside it's something larger than what I can fathom, but then it's always replaced with the conclusion that I've come up with. Steve blamed himself for my transformation... my new persona as a ruthless, cunning, merciless monster.  
  
That was MY decision, Steve. You didn't have to feel guilt or pity to me. You didn't push me into becoming a monster. I DIDN'T have to follow those damn rules and take the mask off. I did it on my own free will. I admit it, I accept it, I...   
  
Tears keep staining my vision, and the squeeze on my shoulder by Taker is keeping me alive, awake, apart of reality. Taker's off in his own world, and I know I can't get him out of it. I don't blame him. He had a bond with Steve, even if he didn't notice it.  
  
So the two of us are gonna stay in the shadows, and he's gonna zone out while I'm gonna cry. And it's all for fucking Stone Cold Steve Austin.  
  
All for that man.  
  
And I just don't get it. Why am I, Glenn -- no! No, why is KANE crying for STONE COLD? Why!?  
  
I... didn't... I don't know him. I DID NOT know him. He was a stranger to me.  
  
He was nothing. Nobody. A figment of my imagination. And now that dream is dead and I'm in reality now.   
  
Why does it hurt, though?  
  
I don't know anymore. I just don't know. It's all so complicated, and weird, and unsure. It's... it's all... insane. Crazy I guess. I just don't know.  
  
I don't think I'm ever gonna get a clear answer from myself, or anyone else. Not from Rob, or Mark, or anyone in the world. No one can help me, or tell me.  
  
Is this guilt? No. I know it isn't. Pity then?  
  
... do I have the ability to pity?  
  
... maybe.  
  
I close my eyes, and sob gently. I guess this is my only peace now until the start of Wrestlemania.   
  
The darkness comforts me, and I feel a warmth engulfing my body.  
  
I don't know why you had an affect on me Steve. You just **DID**.  
  
I'll get an answer from you later.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Effect 8 – Goldberg

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

_I can see through you, see you're true colors. Cause inside your ugly, ugly like me._ - Staind, _Outside_.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
I can see the looks they give me, hateful glares that could piece through the toughest armor and kill the strongest of men. They sneer at me, growl, curse me and damn me to Hell and hope that I never come back.  
  
I know they don't want me here. The fans may want me here, but they're blinded. I know a majority of people out there do not want me here. They'd rather see me dead, buried, and gone.   
  
I'm called a wannabe, a man who tried to take away the spotlight of another during the Monday Night wars. I'm a so-called joke. No one likes me. No one would care if I would ever die. They'd probably celebrate.  
  
Tonight they're crying for a man that they loved and hated. Enemies, fans, friends, family -- they're all crying for him. For Steve Austin.   
  
He's the true legend, they sneer at me. He's the real tough SOB they growl at me. The others mock me, call me a has-been, a person that will never make it over the top, a stupid idiot used during the wars back then.   
  
They say I'm not needed. No one befriended me when I came into the WWE. They were all so distant, wary of me, not trusting me because of who I was.   
  
I'm Bill Goldberg. I was undefeated in WCW for the longest time. I ended Bret Hart's career. I was called the "Austin wannabe." Everyone thought that when I came into the WWE, it would begin it's downfall.  
  
No one cared for me. I think they still want me dead.  
  
But right now, no one cares about what I think. I'm lost in the shadows, my status overtaken by the death of one man. The man that I supposedly "copied." The legend.  
  
The man I was best friends with.  
  
Yeah, weird isn't it?   
  
I was friends -- really good friends with Stone Cold Steve Austin, the man I supposedly copied and wanted to be like.  
  
When I first came into the business, I was actually afraid of him. I mean, I was the biggest draw of the company that tried to drag him under. But it all died when he smiles at me and greeted me like a human being.  
  
Out of the other people here, Steve was the only person who treated me real. He taught me things, told me how to work my way with the politics in the back, work my away around the writers, how to approach the others, and he was blunt in front of me when he said he was pissed that I ended Bret's career.  
  
He was honest, and it hurt at times, but I felt reassured and safe with Steve. He was true, real, and he actually cared for me. Concerned for me and my career. He was a great guy.  
  
I really have nothing to say. We didn't bond as much as he did with the others. I'm standing here, in the stairway near the parking lot, and in the distance I can see the crying form of the Rock. Damn, those two really were close. Always did put on the greatest matches.  
  
I heard the outbursts Hunter made earlier on, and watched the interaction between Taker and Kane. And then, earlier today, I saw someone that I thought I would never see again.  
  
He walked in front of my face. He looked at me straight in the eye. He didn't greet me, he just gave me this cold... unforgivening... icy stare. And I publicly shivered in front of him.  
  
"Bill?" Bret Hart asked softly in my face.  
  
I gulped and looked into his eyes. "Yeah Bret?"  
  
"Do you feel pain?" he asked gently.  
  
I stood there, and I couldn't deny the truth. "I do. Cause of his death."  
  
Bret's a smart man. He smirked, and brushed against my shoulder, pushing me away from his path on purpose. I looked behind me, and I saw him walking away towards the hunched form of another man.  
  
And I knew why he was going there. I didn't know why he showed up here for Wrestlemania, but I knew where he was going.  
  
I walked away from the evident conversation between Mick Foley and Bret Hart, walking into the corridor where the stairs are, and I haven't left here since then. I hear nothing but the distant sobs of the Rock, and I close my eyes.  
  
Tears form against my wishes, and I release a few. I just had to, only for Steve.   
  
I guess I deserved this. No wonder Bret smirked. I caused him pain, and now I feel pain myself. His pain will always haunt him, as my pain always will.  
  
I always did like poetic justice. Even now, when I'm a blunt receiver of it.  
  
So I'm standing here, in silence, relaxing against the wall, and crying with no sound. I'm waiting for Wrestlemania to start, so I can leave, and go far away until I can numb away this pain.  
  
I won't be able to run away from it forever, I know it. But sometimes... sometimes it's good to pretend.  
  
Thanks, Steve, for the time we had.   
  
I stand in silence, and I can hear the sorrow of the world.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Effect 9 – Bret Hart

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

_If you're gonna scream, scream with me._ - Misfits, _Hybrid Moments_.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
I fucking hate Goldberg, but I think that's already been established.  
  
And you know what?  
  
I fucking hate Steve Austin too. I have and always will hate Steve Austin. Why?   
  
Cause I fucking feel like it, that's why.  
  
Steve Austin deserved every bit of that death like he did with my fucking career. It's his fault that I'm paralyzed, and that I'm forgotten and that--  
  
You know, sometimes I'm such an idiot. Scratch what I said beforehand, because to be perfectly honest, I'm angry at the whole goddamn fucking world now and I'm blaming my problems on everybody.  
  
I guess that was a similarity between me and Steve, besides the fucking good matches we had together in the ring. We both admitted when we were wrong. That's about it.  
  
Steve and I weren't close at all. Once and a while we'd meet each other to discuss about our matches and how we wanted to execute it, but honestly? Nothing else. I guess I was too preoccupied with the politics in the back to really get to know the guy.  
  
I do feel a sense of guilt, but I'm trying to brush it off. It's like an annoyance I just can't remove from my mind. Steve never forgave my brother, and my brother never DID talk with him. I kept on trying to tell him to at least call Steve and tell him that he was sorry.  
  
Owen never did. I loved my brother dearly, and holy fuck was I affected as hell. But that's kind of the one thing that pisses me off about my brother. I guess he didn't have the guts or the courage to face the fury of "The Rattlesnake." I don't like to think things like that about my brother... but sometimes I just can't help myself.  
  
But I KNEW the guy. I mean, his character was easy to understand. Steve would have forgiven him had they had that conversation I was pushing Owen into. That's how he functioned. Deeply tell him that you're sorry, and mean it and he'll forgive you.  
  
Owen never did that. Kind of the only anger I have towards him right now and the only pity I have for Steve. All my sorrow is gone, cause it went to Owen. All I feel now is anger, and that's all for you, Steve. So you get the Hitman's anger. Deal with it.  
  
Besides, you're probably getting enough tears already.  
  
Especially with the man I'm staring at right now, sitting on a bench in the hallway of the arena, his tresses of mangled brown hair covering his face, his demented ear, and his hands keeping him safe from the world.  
  
You're probably getting the most tears from Mick. You don't need mine added to the fray.  
  
I sit next to him, and he doesn't acknowledge me. I don't care. He can stay in his world of misery. He has every fucking right to.  
  
Haven't you seen lately, Steve, how Mick's getting more and more demented? Haven't you seen that he's going more insane, losing himself each and everyday, and you were the last part of his humanity?  
  
I don't have to see Mick to notice that he lost himself today, because he lost you. He lost Owen, and that deeply hurt him. But you? Now that your gone?  
  
I think he's gonna lose it. I'm not Mick Foley, but I know he's gonna lose it.   
  
I heard what Hunter did, and I know that whatever Mick Foley is thinking in that head of his is going to be worse than that. Hunter's an assassin -- Mick can be a fucking heartless cold-blooded killer when he wants to be.  
  
And you know what's the scary part?  
  
No one will be able to stop him.  
  
So I'm going to sit here, and keep my presence near Mick's. If he's going to acknowledge me, let him do that on his own time. I know Wrestlemania's gonna start soon, and maybe I'll show up as a referee as those stupid idiots in the back wanted me to do. I don't know, and frankly, I could give a fuck.  
  
I'm only here to help Mick. Originally I was here to greet a few people I haven't seen in a while, and check out the show at my own leisure, but when I heard you died Steve, I just came to Mick. Happened to run into Goldberg, too, and that sure put a smile on my face.  
  
You kinda gave me some poetic justice. Thanks.  
  
Not gonna hear me say that publicly, mind you, but thanks a lot.  
  
So I'm sitting here. And I'm thinking about shit and things. But it's mostly about Mick. A little about you, Steve, and reminising about Owen a bit, but it's for Mick. My mind is focused for Mick.  
  
I'm glad I can't read minds.  
  
I wouldn't want to see what Mick's thinking right now.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. Effect 10 – Mick Foley

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

_Nothing is real but pain now._ - Metallica, _One_.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
...  
  
There's a book I once read that dealt with a man who lost everything -- his arms, his legs, his sight, his speech -- and was tortured for years. Never dying, always living -- a man of personified purgatory.  
  
I... remember those words.  
  
I don't know whether I'm alive or dreaming or dead or remembering. How can you tell what's dream and what's real when you can't even tell whether you're awake or you're asleep?  
  
... where am I?  
  
I can relate.  
  
Everything's obscure, blurry, and surreal. The world I once lived in vanished, and all I'm left with -- stuck with -- is this... forlorn... nothingness.   
  
I can feel nothing, see nothing, taste nothing -- I am numb. I define it.   
  
I've heard their cries, the ones who felt the ripples of his death and began to cry for him. Began to rip their souls. Began to destroy their controls over sanity. Began to shattered their own reality.  
  
He always called me a crazy son of a bitch, and meant it lovingly. But he spoke the truth. He always did.  
  
I _am_ crazy.  
  
These children nowadays, when they describe themselves, they abuse that fearful, philosophical word. They call themselves crazy, insane-- do they even understand the world of acromania? Naive, innocent souls, trying to perceive their ideals and ideas in the world -- they don't understand.  
  
The term "crazy" is not a word to use for the innocent. It's used for those who have lost everything and anything, left only with an emptiness, a nothingness. It's a word produced by society for those who aren't apart of the norm, and who cannot function with the world.  
  
It isn't a label on children or people. A person cannot act "crazy." They can portray themselves as unique from others, or different. Never crazy. It's children today that are destroying my sacred word, the word that he gave me, the word that just... paralleled to my soul.  
  
To who am I.   
  
_I_ am crazy.  
  
Sounds funny, doesn't it? My word has become a stereotype for the comical, the hilarious, the whimsical mirth of society. A person whose "crazy" is a ludicrous idiot who walks around and acts so stupid the populus laughs at him. Whatever that person does is so absurd, he's deemed "crazy."  
  
If a child is labeled "crazy," or they label themselves that word, then they purposely act weird from others. To gain attention, to be the one that stands out the most, to feel like he or she is acting different from others and won't be succumbed to follow the norm like everyone else.  
  
A person called "crazy" is someone who has radical thoughts, views, or ideals. Hitler was crazy. Hussien was crazy. The Wright Brothers were crazy. George Washington was crazy. Plato was crazy. Aristotle was crazy. Julius Caesar was crazy.   
  
And even I want to smile and laugh at the word. "Crazy." It's a term of the humanity now, the side of humanity that everyone loves to visit. The one side of us all that has such happiness and mirth it's lovely to come there. Laughter is apart of the soul.  
  
Steve... he called me "crazy." And for a while, I thought it was just a label, something he picked up from society. But now, now that I think about it...   
  
He meant it.  
  
He didn't think I was "crazy." He thought that I AM crazy.  
  
He saw through my facade, the barrier that I put up around others. He saw the darkness in my heart, the carrying abyss, the crawling chaos that others have never seen. No man has dared gone there, the place that I've tried to stay away from my sanity.  
  
He did. He saw it, and I know for a fact that I scared the living shit out of him. But he stayed true, he stayed with me... he was my friend. A guy that stayed with me, even when he saw it all, within my heart. He saw the darkness, and he just latched onto me. He wouldn't let me go.  
  
Maybe he wanted to help me, but he never did. Maybe he knew that he couldn't do a damn thing to remove the darkness from my soul because it was apart of who I am. So maybe... maybe...  
  
I don't know why he stayed with me.   
  
If I ever went there... I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be who I am. I'd transform, let the ooze seep through my veins, the chaos enter my mind, and succumb to the numbing darkness. If I went through what Steve went through when he saw what I was deep down inside, I'd probably be traumatized for life.  
  
He was a strong man. Stronger than I will ever be.   
  
I'm already numb. And I'm already walking towards that dark light. Without Steve here, I don't have someone to confine everything. I don't have someone to actually look inside the real me, the one that no one can ever see, and tell me what he thought. He... he knew me.  
  
_He_ knew me.  
  
He _knew_ me.  
  
He knew _me_.  
  
He...   
  
I'm imprisoned into my own body, and I'm dying inside. I'm starting to feel this darkness taking over my body, and I can't fight it off. I have no one to lean onto. Those who try to... stay away.  
  
God, stay away.  
  
Don't come near me.  
  
Don't see me.  
  
Don't.  
  
I'm dead.  
  
I'm dying.  
  
I'm leaving.  
  
It's taking over.  
  
Bret's near me, but I'm not going to talk to him. I just might scare him. Scar him for life. I don't want to do that to someone I'm close to.   
  
What will happen when I go back to my family? Will my wife tell how I've changed? Will my children? How about my other friends? Will they see the crawling chaos fall into my brain and slowly dominating who I am?  
  
Will I even succumb?  
  
I'm dying.  
  
Steve, wherever you are, help me. Guide me. Be my guardian angel, be the voice of reason, be the person that can actually live in my darkness and keep it under control. It's an anarchy state, this darkness, taking over anything haphazardly.   
  
Please, Steve, watch over me. I need you to.  
  
YOU KNEW WHO I AM.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Final Effect – Raven

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

_Quando corpus morietur, fac ut animae donetur, paradisi gloria._  
_While my body is here lying, let my soul be swiftly flying, to thy glorious paradise._  


* * *

  
  
  
  
So I'm standing here in the middle of the ring.  
  
It's the start of Wrestlemania, an event I've never had the priviledge of being apart of.  
  
And to be honest?  
  
I could give a flying fuck.  
  
I've got this mic in my hand, and I'm looking at the stunned, buzzing crowd. I can just read it in their eyes, the same exact thought that screams throughout the universe.  
  
"What the fuck is Raven doing here!?"  
  
I'm smiling, but no one can perceive what I'm thinking, or what I'm feeling. It's kinda cool that I'm able to do that, keeping what I contemplate or what I am experiencing under wraps.   
  
No one knows this, but me and Steve were good friends. We used to travel a lot together in WCW, and actually were on the road with one another, along with Brian. Not many people know that.   
  
And hell, not many people remember Brian Pillman, which pisses me off beyond my fucking control. I'm sure that in about twenty or something years people might ask me, "Whose Stone Cold Steve Austin?" I'm sure I'll probably yell at them or punch them - or if I'm an old man I'll wack them with my cane.  
  
I'm going to make sure that cane has a lot of thorns in it.  
  
I gave him ideas for wrestling, cause he was green as hell back then in WCW, and also some promo and gimmick ideas. Fuck, did he soak up that shit like a sponge. Nowadays when I look back at that time, I'm thinking, "And back then he hated talking."   
  
But hell, things happened, we got split, but we kept in touch. Steve was a good guy. And with all those people in the back crying for him, I know they realized the same thing.  
  
So why the hell is Mr. "What About Me? What About Raven?" doing in the middle of the WWE ring when he should be out at NWA-TWA and doing his own shit there? Why is he here at Wrestlemania, with a mic in his hand?  
  
Well, that's fucking simple.  
  
I was here to say hello to Steve, give him a surprise.  
  
He gave me the surprise, though.  
  
Something inside is telling me that those guys in the back are having their own private solliloquies, thinking to themselves about how much fun and what bond they had with Steve. I know Steve and I didn't have that strong of a bond like Taker, or Mick, or Rocky, but we had something.  
  
And yeah, it does fucking hurt. It'll always hurt. But guess what? I'm going to have to move on. Maybe I'm so passive because I am filled with "so much fucking angst you could make Poe cry," as Steve once said to me back on the road.   
  
So I'm going to say what I feel, to these people here, to the people in the back, and to the world. If they've got a problem with it, they can fuck themselves.   
  
I bring the mic to my mouth, and I let my words flow.  
  
"I'm not here to remember, idolize or sob about Steve's death. I'm here only to state the truth. Steve was my friend. He was a great guy to hang around with. He was honest, sincere, and normal. You can't find that in people nowadays. Normality. All these people are so fucking fake, it's hard to tell what's real and what's false. Steve had none of that shit. And I'm gonna miss that about him. His ability to be normal and act like a human being when he's so high up there on cloud nine."  
  
I sardonically smile, turning my body and my eyes around to watch their reactions. "He really is up there in the clouds now. And all I hope is that he and Brian, wherever they are, will raise as much as Hell in Heaven as they did here on Earth and open a big hole for me to fly through when it's my time to go, cause I sure as hell know God won't let me in there unless I sneak my way in."  
  
Smirking, I'm silent for awhile, hearing the defining silence, and I love it. "See you on the other side, Steve, when the time comes," I said solemnly, and I lost my smile. "Quoth the Raven."   
  
Throwing the mic to the ground, I just merely walk away from the ring, the crowd, the people in the back -- everything. I'm not apart of this scene. I'm apart of something else. I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere. I'm Raven, and I'm living, that's all.  
  
I saw Mick, and he was just staring at me. I smiled at him.  
  
For some odd reason, Bret was there. I nodded to him, and he nodded back. Guess he's trying to help out Mick. Even I know that no one can help that poor guy.  
  
Within the shadows I found the Undertaker and kane, and again I only met eyes with them. Kane smiled at me, and I faintly returned it.  
  
I passed Jericho's locker room, and I saw him laughing his ass off. I smirked at his antics.   
  
After his room, I glanced into Shawn's room, where he was kneeling on the floor, praying and crying. Anger seeped from his clamped mouth, as if he was trying to keep it in. I chuckled.  
  
Soon after Shawn's room, I saw Hunter's. That group he's with -- the one with Flair and shit -- they were hovering over him like a bunch of bitches. Hunter ignored them. He gave me a look, with his blood smeared hands, and just smiled thankfully. I shrugged.  
  
In the coridoor to the stairs of the parking lot when I passed it, I saw Goldberg there. We met eyes, passed stares, and nothing more.  
  
Going outside of the arena, in the distance I saw Chris Benoit staring at the sky, with streams of tears down his face. I looked up and saw what he was gazing at -- the North Star. I walked to my car.  
  
I unlocked my car, and I was ready to go inside. However, I heard the faint crying of someone. Sighing, I walked over to the opposite side of the parking lot, and there I found the cradled, sorrowful heap of the Rock.  
  
Hmm. Well.  
  
I walked forward, bent down and I smacked him on the face.  
  
He snapped his head and his eyes were enraged, stained with tears and filled with sorrow and hatred. He glared at me.  
  
I stared at him impassively. "Pull yourself together, Rocky," I merely said. "Steve isn't here--" I poked him in the chest where his heart is. "-- so he's there. Get fucking used to it."  
  
I could feel his eyes on me, but I could give a shit. I didn't care for him, I didn't care for anybody.  
  
I went into the car, got in, started the car and turned up the volume of the radio to some great music. I recognized the song immediately... and it's kind of ironic.  
  
It's a song that me, Brian, and Steve used to sing sometimes in the car when we were on the road. It's a new version, kinda tuned in late so it's near the ending and it's a little addictive, but it's still the same song.  
  
"Here I am, on the road again. There I am up on the stage. Here I go, playing the star again, there I go... turn the page."  
  
And it's the ending that's struck me. He's gone. And all we have to do now is just turn the page of life.   
  
Holy fuck, that's right.  
  
He's gone, and he ain't coming back.  
  
Fuck.  
  
"There I go... there I go... there I go... here I go... there I go... there I go... and I'm gone."  
  
Irony sucks.  
  
I sped down the highway, away from the galor and extravaganza that is supposed to be Wrestlemania.   
  
I don't think there's going to be any magic tonight.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	13. Epilouge & End Notes

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
A couple miles away, two crystal blue eyes stared at the arena. He could hear the faint sound of cheering. Vaguely his heart pinged, longing to return and hear those cries chanting only for him.  
  
He imagined their faces -- their gleeful smiles, their flailing arms, their eyes lightened up like stars -- and he envisoned the people he left behind. His soul cracked, and he smiled very, very softly.   
  
The old man turned around, leaving his life behind him. A faint gust of wind touched his cheek, voices lingering within his mind. He knew the time to leave was now.   
  
A gold chain glistened in the moonlight.  
  
  
  
  


_Animus Impetus_  
_Heart Shocks_  
  
_Exitus._

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
**Started:** February 16th, 2004  
**Finished:** February 19th, 2004  
  
_Animus Impetus_ was a dream that I had on February 15th. When I woke up, I immediately went to my dream journal, writing down whatever I could remember before I could forget. From the scribbles that I wrote, I could make out a few things. I wrote down quotes from the dream, scenes that stood out, and moments that affected me greatly.  
  
Here's a list of the things in this fic that came verbatim from my dream:  
  
- Lillian entering the ring, announcing Austin's death and falling onto the mat  
- Rocky crying in the parking lot  
- Hunter sitting in his locker room, blood staining his hands  
- Shawn praying  
- Benoit crying while acting like a statue in the night  
- Jericho hysterically laughing  
- Taker and Kane standing side-by-side, Kane crying, Taker stoic  
- Goldberg standing in the coridoor  
- Bret facing Goldberg  
- Raven's monologue and the song used in his part, "Turn The Page."  
  
In the beginning I wrote this story for the sake of being wrote before I lost the urge to do so. Within three days, I finished the entire story. From my dream, I had the thoughts of Eric Bischoff and Vince McMahon, but I wasn't able to fit them within _Animus Impetus_ for the sake of one person-- Mick Foley.  
  
When I wrote Mick's, I had no guidance at all. I had wrote nothing of Mick's down in the journal. It's the reason why I began Mick's part as "..." to symbolize how out of everything in my dream, I did not remember Mick's. It's because of Mick's part that I could not add Vince or Eric's.   
  
Mick threw me off-guard. I just happened to write his while I kept the music video _One_ by Metallica on continuation. I had memorized the words before the song began, and incorperated it into Mick's part. The intensity and sheer angst and urgency and total insanity within Mick's part knocked off Vince and Eric. I couldn't continue. Mick's part screamed, "THE END." So I followed Mick's with Raven's.  
  
I don't know whether to thank Mick or not, but now that I have finished _Animus Impetus_, it is now the prequel to my fic _Escondio_. It wasn't even originally intended to be the prequel! However, with the certain twists I put into _Escondio_, the characterization of Mick within this story is essential in the extreme. I guess my mind did a favor for me. ^_^;  
  
Ever since I made this fic, I've got questions as to why I chose Austin. Why him? Well, one is because I'm an Austin junkie. If I happen to dream, he's usually in it. LOL. Aside from that, I wondered (before I actually happened to fall asleep the night when I dreamed that dream) what would happen if Austin died. What would others do? Their actions? Reasons?  
  
So, I dreamed, I got the idea, and I wrote this fic. Simple as that.  
  
_Animus Impetus_ is now complete. I would like to thank Krissi, whom this fic would not have had it's title or beginning quote, Sarah, who I made cry endlessly and tempted her to stab me with sporks, Gwen, who is just a doll and I adore her and she's a great supporter and the Kane part was especially made for her, Kol, for her never-ending support and snarking and response to Mick's part, and of course, Becca, whom I wouldn't have been able to do this fic without her. She was with me when I wrote all the parts, from Effect #2 to Effect #10.  
  
The story is over. Steve Austin is dead. The world drowns themselves in tears and shall move on with their lives.  
  
But the thing is... how did he _die_?  
  
How _did_ Steve die?  
  
... never thought about that, didja?   
  
- Solita, March 11th, 2004  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
